


Dirt

by mizdiz



Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, Character Study, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 12:39:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16219220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizdiz/pseuds/mizdiz
Summary: Some days she wondered if she really had been burned away, and all that was left was this foreign personality inhabiting her empty shell of a body, but Daryl had told her that they weren't ashes, so she needed him to prove it; needed him to show her that underneath the lies and deception and mercilessness, Carol still existed.





	Dirt

**Author's Note:**

> happy premiere day. just a lil something i threw together.
> 
> waynedunlaptheorgandonor.tumblr.com
> 
> later,  
> -diz

The kitchen smelled like casserole. It didn't even matter what kind of casserole, at this point; after awhile, it all just sort of blended together. Green bean casserole, chicken and rice casserole, tuna casserole—who the fuck cared, honestly? 

 

Not Carol, that was for damn sure, but tucked neatly inside her slacks and button-up blouse, with a predictable “Kiss the Cook” apron tied atop the outfit, she had to pretend like it mattered. She had to act like she gave two shits about what type of cookies she brought to book club. She had to act like the gave two shits  _ about _ book club. It was strategy, and she was good at it, but she also was getting worried she was one more, “Can you believe we only have  _ canned _ mushrooms?” away from officially losing it and going into the street, guns blazing.

 

The front door opened. Carol looked up from the plate she was washing to see Daryl enter the house. 

 

He was filthy. His hair was unkempt and greasy, he had dirt all over his face, grass stains on his clothes, and rabbit blood all over his hands. He kicked off his boots, and bits of mud flew off them.

 

God, it was a refreshing sight.

 

_ “He's just so...mysterious. Like a genuine bad boy, you know?” _ That's what Lucy had said to Carol and a handful of the other women when they were trading recipes at Olivia's house earlier.

 

_ “I think he's sexy,” _ Barbara had said with a blush, hand covering her mouth, and the women had all giggled around Carol like school girls, while Carol tried to remember how. She hadn't genuinely  _ giggled _ since long before the world ended.

 

_ “You live with him, Carol,” _ Maya had said, grinning mischievously.  _ “You ever think about trying to, you know,  _ be _ with him?” _

 

And Carol had just laughed, and said, in her best housewife voice,  _ “He's a good man, don't get me wrong, but for a woman like me, he's just a bit much, don't you think?” _

 

“Hey,” Daryl grunted, nodding at her as he shrugged off his vest and let it fall to the ground next to his boots, on Carol's freshly cleaned floor. She smiled at the mess on the hardwood.

 

She didn't give him a reply. She set down the plate, dried her hands on her apron, and walked right up to Daryl and kissed him hard on the mouth.

 

“Mmph,” Daryl mumbled, surprised, before kissing her back. He started to pull away, but Carol grabbed him by the shirt and held him in place, opening her mouth and running her tongue over his, in a deep kiss that certainly implied more than a simple 'welcome home.’ After a good thirty seconds of this, Daryl finally did pull away, and huffed a breath out of his nose. “The hell's that about?” he asked, sounding breathless.

 

“No one else will be home for another two hours at least,” Carol said, nipping at the skin below his ear. “And Maggie is watching Judith at her place.” Daryl let out a shaky little laugh.

 

“I ain't opposed,” he said to her unasked question. “I should shower first, though. I'm grimy, even for me.”

 

But didn't he understand? That was the  _ point _ .

 

“Nuh-uh,” Carol breathed. “Want you like this.”

 

“I'll get your fancy book club clothes all dirty,” Daryl breathed back, making no moves towards the shower. In response, Carol took hold of his wrists, and brought his hands up to rest on her breasts, staining the fabric underneath.

 

“Good,” she said, and kissed him again.

 

He smelled like the forest, all damp earth and tree sap. He'd been in a lake, his clothes reeking of odorous, stagnant water, and the dried sweat on his skin was almost acrid. She, on the other hand, reeked of sickly sweet sugar and sifted flour. On her wrists and behind her ears, she'd dabbed bits of fruity perfume one of the women had gifted her. The stale perfume had a pungent alcohol scent that overpowered the peach. Carol embraced Daryl fully, and immersed herself in him, like a cat trying to lick away an foreign scent—she didn't know herself anymore, but he was so static, so familiar, and she needed the comfort.

 

She tugged him over to the kitchen table, and pulled herself onto it, mindlessly shoving away placemats and centerpiece decorations, letting them topple and clatter. She fitted herself between his legs and reached behind herself to untie her apron, which she tossed haphazardly to the floor.

 

“Goddamn,” muttered Daryl, as she grabbed him by the belt so she could lean up and scrape her teeth lightly along his collarbone. He held her by the hips. “The fuck's got you so riled up?”

 

She didn't even know if she was horny, so much as she was lost. Some days she wondered if she really had been burned away, and all that was left was this foreign personality inhabiting her empty shell of a body, but Daryl had told her that they weren't ashes, so she needed him to prove it; needed him to show her that underneath the lies and deception and mercilessness,  _ Carol _ still existed.

 

“Take off my blouse,” she said in response, and when he started to make careful work of her buttons, she quickly amended, “No,  _ tear _ off my blouse.”

 

Daryl paused. Slowly, he slipped his bloody fingers along the front seam of her blouse, and looked at her questioningly. She nodded in encouragement, and he yanked hard with his strong arms, sending buttons flying and clattering on the floor, joining the mud from Daryl's boots.

 

“Hated that damn shirt,” Daryl whispered against her neck, while his hands found the bare skin of her torso. 

 

“Me too,” Carol whispered back.

 

“Hate the whole outfit,” Daryl admitted. “You ain't you when you're dressed like this.”

 

“Show me how much you hate it,” Carol said, leaning back onto her elbows and letting her legs dangle on either side of Daryl's thighs.

 

Swallowing, Daryl pressed up closer until he was hard against her through the layers of their pants. He bent forward and kissed her sweetly, and then, without warning, wrenched the sleeve of her blouse down, the sound of ripping thread echoing in the empty room. He love-bit her shoulder along every freckle. While he was occupied, Carol made quick work of his shirt, too, although she kept the buttons in tact. Daryl stood up straight just long enough to shrug out of it, before coming right back.

 

He pushed her back gently until she laid flat on the table, and he began a trail of kisses, from the length of her sternum, tracing a circle around her belly button, until he reached her pelvic bone. He nipped at the dip between her hips, while his hands undid her slacks, and jerked the zipper down hard enough to pull the slider from the teeth. She kicked out of the impractical flats she was wearing—the ones that always made her miss the safety and strength of her boots, and made her feel like a walking target if she were forced to make a quick getaway.

 

“Sure this is okay?” Daryl asked, voice muffled, his face still pressed against her skin, and she had to suppress a grin. In the time that they'd been sleeping together, he'd shown an evident increase in confidence, but he always had to ask first; always needed the reassurance. She could be dripping like a faucet and screaming the Lord's name in vain like a heathen, and he'd always have that moment of doubt, and she loved him for it—loved that he was this predictable creature she could count on to care for her.

 

“Yes,” she told him simply, and that was all the encouragement he needed. He slid her slacks and panties down her thighs together, his nails ghosting over her milky skin, sending goosebumps up and down her arms. He slipped the clothes off over her feet, and ran his hands up the length of her stubbly legs. 

 

She'd started shaving again. After so much time living to survive, one of the first things to fall to the wayside were useless luxuries like shaving. She had the suspicion that Daryl actually preferred her with a bit of body hair—figured it appealed to that part of his soul that was always in the wild of the forest—and truth be told, she'd learned to prefer it, too, liking the way it made her feel like one of those confident alternative girls she'd sometimes see on the streets of downtown Atlanta, back when her self-confidence was bottled and kept by a man who would balk if she so much as missed a hair with her razor, but here she had appearances to keep. In her lukewarm showers, she rid herself of the protective barrier of hair that reminded her of what it was like to live on the road, and she would step out of the shower, wearing the body that fit her façade.

 

But she didn't feel like she was putting on a front now, as Daryl kissed the soft part of her knee as he nudged her legs a little wider. He ran his tongue where her pelvic bone met her thigh, and she felt herself being pulled back from her perpetual state of dissociation, plunging back into her own body, and she started to remember how to  _ be _ .

 

He kept his hands on her hips to steady her, while his mouth found her at last. He dipped his tongue inside her, lapping up the taste of her with greed. Before him, she'd never been with a lover who loved giving so much more than taking; who actually got off on watching her writhe.

 

He'd taken the time to learn her. Even when she was unknowable to herself, he had her memorized with the same devotion as a priest committing the Bible to memory. He knew where to put pressure, when to go faster, how hard or soft she needed it, just by reading her body like a book. He sucked expertly at her clit, eliciting a sound that came from the very back of her throat; carnal and intelligible. Let the women see her now, she thought, laying spread eagle out in the open, the front door unlocked just feet away from her, while Bad Boy Dixon worked her pussy with precision.

 

The first time Daryl ate her out, she'd been fraught with embarrassment, unable to fully appreciate the enthusiasm he put into it. She'd been taught to be ashamed; her late husband had made sure to let her know that sex was not for _ her _ . But on the nights when Ed was passed out from one too many beers, or in the afternoons when Sophia was at school and some daytime talk show was playing in the background, she would go rummaging through her sock drawer, until she found the pair of old nylons that she'd wrapped around her conservative, silver vibe. She'd get herself off with thoughts of men who treated her like a gift instead of a used good, and until she had Daryl, she could only believe that the sort of love she craved was merely a fantasy.

 

Daryl, bringing a heat down into her core as her muscles began to contract, not only made her remember herself—he somehow managed to remind her of the woman she had always wanted to be. Screw what everyone saw her as, because at least she knew that she was the type of woman who got fucked on the kitchen table, and then served dinner on it afterwards.

 

When she came, she let herself voice it. Meek, quiet, mousey Carol was a one-woman choir of unbecoming pleasure, Daryl's tongue still inside her until the very last pulse of her inner walls. He pulled away, and when he moved his hands, he left imprints of blood and dirt on her hip bones.

 

Her body rattled with the aftershocks, and she found and matched Daryl's gaze, pouring every ounce of adoration and gratefulness into it, hoping he would understand, at least marginally, how human he made her, and how invaluable that was.

 

“Can we…?” he asked, voice shy, his fingers hovering hopefully at the buckle of his belt.

 

“ _ Please _ ,” Carol said.

 

“How do you...What way?” He was still so new to all of this, but that was okay, because Carol needed to be in control.

 

“Right here, like this,” she said, grabbing him by the elbow and tugging him towards her until he got the message and bent forward, kissing her thoroughly. When she was satisfied, she pushed herself up enough to reach behind her back and undo the clasp of her bra. She wanted as much skin-to-skin as she could get.

 

“What if we break the table?” Daryl asked, eyes trained on her breasts.

 

“Then we break the table,” Carol said simply.

 

This appeared to be reasonable enough for Daryl, who nodded absently, and, in a mad rush, loosened his belt, and shoved his baggy pants down to his feet, boxers and all. 

 

He scooped her up from under her shoulders, and held her tight against his chest. Sitting on the edge of the table, she hooked her ankles around his waist, and let him adjust her until she was level with his jutting erection. They both let out long hisses of breath once he pushed inside her.

 

After a moment, Daryl found a rhythmic rocking motion, and with each thrust, Carol let out a sharp exhale. She dug her fingers into the raised tissue of his scarred back, and clung to him for dear life, her face buried in the crook of his neck, where she kissed him behind the ear and tasted the salt of his sweat.

 

The angle didn't allow for a lot of speed, and she knew the moment Daryl grew frustrated, because he all but growled into her hair, and suddenly she found herself on her back again, legs wrapped around Daryl's middle, as he thrusted harder, plunging deeper with each movement, all while the kitchen table creaked dangerously under their weight.

 

He was panting, breath hot and moist on her skin. Beads of sweat made track marks in the dirt on his face, and she knew that when they eventually pulled apart, she'd have remnants of his day in the woods all over her body. She groaned in pleasure at the thought, lengthening her neck and arching her back, while Daryl slammed into her. She felt animalistic, feral, and somehow that was so much more authentic than anything had been in _ so _ long.

 

She gripped his biceps and let herself go again, flush with relief at finally coming home to herself. His movements became erratic as her orgasm contracted her muscles around him, and it wasn't long before he followed her, letting out a single-syllabled grunt, and holding her close.

 

He caught his breath, lifted his head, and kissed her with a sweetness that was contrary to the way they'd just been going at it, but Carol appreciated it all the same. She pushed his damp hair from his face and smiled up at him. He was looking at her the way he always did—like he  _ saw _ her. And that was something, wasn't it? That's what set Daryl so far apart. He saw her in the moments when she was herself, but more importantly, he saw her when she wasn't. He could always find her.

 

“You're filthy,” Daryl said when he finally raised himself off of her, and immediately she missed him.

 

“That's usually my line,” Carol quipped, letting him take her hand and lift her up so she could slide off of the table. She winced a little at the stiffness in her legs, but it was worth it.

 

“I'd apologise, but I did warn you,” Daryl said, closing the gap between them to cup her face and kiss her again, like he just couldn't resist it. She smiled against his mouth.

 

“Come upstairs,” she said softly. “Take a nap with me.”

 

“Shouldn't we clean up first?” Daryl asked, but she was shaking her head before he got to the end of his sentence.

 

“They'll be time to get clean later,” she said. She gathered up their clothes, and led him up the stairs. 

 

In their bed, they left stains on the cotton, and Carol couldn't have cared less. She burrowed herself against Daryl's body and breathed for what felt like the first time since the prison. They'd have to get up eventually, would have to go back to their lives, but not now. Not yet.

 

In his arms, under the dirt on their skin, she was Carol again, and she wasn't ready to find out who she would be once she washed it all away.


End file.
